A Day For Redemption
by Bitumz
Summary: They were a mess of checks and balances, deep regrets, and tender forgiveness. In both life and death. Elena/Elijah. Takes place within season 3. Three-parter.


A/N:  
Elena/Elijah three-parter.  
A small warning that this may hit tender spots in the next two chapters.  
This ship may have sunk long ago but fear not!  
I brought life rafts.

* * *

_~  
Falling slowly_  
_eyes that know me_  
_and I can't go back_  
~

* * *

It was always about the little things. The parts of a woman most men would look over in search of the more commonly sought out attributes. While she carried the unrelenting natural beauty of her ancestors, to him, it was the way her voice of reason reached his ears before she spoke; how she tucked away his promises deep beneath the determined cross of her arms over her chest and kept them there faithfully. And in the warmth of her eyes; he'd never seen a sight so magnificent as when they lit daringly with her negotiations, as if she didn't already expect his compliance to whatever obstacle she chose to throw in his path. As if he were no threat to her at all.

He had always held a tender spot for such a fire.

What he hadn't expected was for her to match him in the skill of observation to an almost unnerving level. It was a trait normally lacked by her kind; not to mention by those her age… so young and restless, but with the likes of a practiced conqueror placed before a challenge once believed insurmountable, not a flowering woman. And he had been the one to align the stars that connected the two, conqueror to challenge, though he had walked into her life with it all backwards; with every intention of bringing it to an end for his own gain.

At the time, he did not care whose face she wore. It would not have mattered. This he swore to himself, and at the time he had never been one to go back on his word. Words were all he had left. But he was met with an unbelievably strong willed surprise. His impressive clutch of the English language had never failed him so entirely as when he she directly called him out for caring.

Of course she would pick that from the century's worth of history and family secrets he had entrusted her with. How easily she saw past it; lifetimes worth of darkness and betrayal and death and she questioned only his heart. Never his mistakes. He'd never felt so embarrassingly vulnerable in his long life, though he had somehow managed to conjure enough control for it to show only in the slight tightening of his fist around the fabric of her jacket before he released it over to her. Had it been solid, it would have splintered in his hand.

Not once did he imagine becoming so moldable. It was not in his nature. Plans were meant to be followed and deals were to go unchallenged, especially when they came as courtesies from an Original vampire. But he learned quickly that Elena Gilbert had never been one to allow her own life to flow smoothly. How could he hope to expect anything different in accordance with his own?

So what little fear there was in her eyes at their first few encounters faded entirely over time and with every cock of her eyebrow and whip of her gentle, convincing tongue, he broke shamelessly in her healer's hands. His will to protest was cut off each time by her smiles of victory. His command became her fuel. His reasoning, her heartbreak.

A system of checks and balances; assurances and something real to hold on to in a time where the concept of trust ran thin elsewhere. Where ever she chose to take the conversation he would follow, admittedly somewhat staggered by the tender compilation of wisdom and integrity that flowed from her in constant stream, though the complexity and balance of such traits so greatly surpassed her years. She told him the stories behind each of her scars before taking the time to find each of the cold spots within him; dug for them, fighting with gentle encouragement and fierce stubbornness to warm them enough so that he could no longer hide beneath their depths. The mask that slipped so easily over his features took a bit more coaxing, but even that melted away with the ungodly amount of patience the girl was gifted with.

Admiration easily overpowered the touch of frustration that came with exposure.

And before long, their talks of plans and strictly business visits grew into something much more. They were breaths of fresh air to an immortal who held no need of such a trivial reflex but longed for it, just the same; like green leaves to light, he found he grew within the glow her brightness.

They were treasured minutes that flowed past into unnoticed hours of intelligent conversation and the twisting of words and lips into sly smiles that his eyes would linger on for a bit longer than customary; breathtaking phenomenons under such circumstances.

Unknown fears over hot tea and troubles just as they became apparent upon one another's features. They were morning walks through the gardens that lasted well into the setting sun. Evening perches on a window seat well after her eyes had slid closed from exhaustion.

Promises that he would be there when she awoke.

And even a single, quiet admittance that it was the only way she could maintain a sound night sleep with all the waiting and worrying.

Somewhere around then was when the stinging began.

At first it was tolerable, proving to be nothing more than a sharp jolt of regret every time she accidentally reminded him that her troubles were every bit his fault. So he began to test himself; first letting a few of her calls slip through his fingers. Then going days at a time without reveling in her presence (to her knowledge, at least) to see if he remembered how to do so … To see if it helped either of them.

Though never did she fully leave his watch. Just in case it was time.

In doing so, when the time finally did arrive, he found he'd cursed himself with the coveted front row seat of Elena Gilbert's demise. Watching the circles grow deeper and dark beneath her eyes and the tenseness refuse to leave her body, even as the sun rose higher in the sky ridding the night of its onslaught of mystery. Standing still as stone along the tree line as her own family was murdered before her eyes. Watching the blood be drained from her by an unrecognizable monster he once called a brother.

And he _ached_ with her, the fire spreading hot from his chest, through his bones in molten swells of damnable self-loathing.

The idea of having to watch her deteriorate in such a way is what had led to the false promises in the first place. The ones that swore no harm would come to her from his family. That he would even see to it personally.

The ones that bent, and bit back, and broke everything.

Sure, she'd crossed him a time or two but that was child's play in comparison to his sins. He'd kept her alive but he'd failed to stop her life from being taken from her. He might as well have promised her the beautiful world he wanted nothing more than to provide her with, only to break it carelessly between his palms and hurl it down upon her in shards of piercing hail.

She had told him once that being crossed and lied to by brothers she once believed would hold her heart higher than their selfish endeavors was becoming a common occurrence. She had shed tears right there in front of him and he could do nothing about it from his distance. And he, being the masochist he'd become the very first time his heart had been ripped from its chest cavity, had given himself the silent challenge right then and there to be the one to show her how a true gentleman handles his priorities if he ever got the chance to.

But history had a knack for repeating itself. And for the first time in his immortal existence, he did not have them entirely straight. He grew so painfully aware of it so suddenly... So far, _far_ too late.

So he left.

Only after knowing for certain that a life free of Mikaelson's was the last and most precious gift he could leave her with after everything he'd let happen. This time without notice. No notes, no visits, no more slip ups. Because he was sure that if for some maddening reason she requested he not leave her side, he never would again.

He swore he felt the space within his rib cage grow emptier with each rotation of the car tires over pavement but he mashed the pedal down dangerously close to its limit anyway because he deserved every bit of it. Every gnashing bump and pebble along the road jolted him back from mind numbing thoughts and it was during those times that he fought an internal battle much harder than any time he'd ever had to wield a sword and shield.

He didn't know it yet, but a phone call a few hours later would put that particular feeling to shame.

A few trembling words from his sister would flip his reasoning and reality upon itself. They shattered his nerves and his heart in a way that reminded him it had, in fact, been found by a girl he had single handedly escorted directly to an untimely death. Not to mention the steering wheel, leaving the once sleek vehicle in an unrecognizable pile amongst the brush alongside the road. The exertion of pent up rage had been a necessity and he thanked whomever laughed down at him from above that foreign steel and unkempt woods had been the only things within his reach at that moment.

It was his fate, it seemed, to lose everything he ever cared for. Klaus had made sure of that from the start. To have ever felt even the tiniest sliver of hope of being able to open his heart to another was a sickening farce that sent restless hands raking through disheveled hair in an uncharacteristic show of incomprehension. Because he was far beyond lost. Neither the power behind his years, nor the insight from his endless experiences could have prepared him for this.

He spent a long time sitting, defeated in the protection of the trees that still stood. He intricately cursed each one of them. Cursed the birds that sang much too happily from their protection; the sun for having the audacity to shine at a time such as this. He cursed the Salvatores for not having the ability to do a single damn thing right. Klaus, for pushing them all to this point in a show of imagined power. And his foolish, _selfish_ little sister for following so blindly in his footsteps.

But none on them faced his wrath so much as himself. His own mind tore into him in ways weapons never could; laughed at him for holding on to the faith he held for his long lost family. Reminded him that no matter who else he tried to place the blame on, he had been the one to put the hefty price on an innocent girl's head. Made her a pawn, placed the spotlight upon her, and left her standing alone smack in the middle of his family's wicked games. He had once believed that vampires were incapable of feeling sick to their stomachs. Though he was growing more and more convinced that believing in anything was what led him to right where he sat.

But he owed her far too much to return to his old ways.

So he returned to her side, instead.

* * *

**Epigraph: **_Falling Slowly - Kris Allen_

Feedback is a writer's fuel!


End file.
